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61 At Nightfall Weeping enters in, quiet as snow settling on the still unfrozen water. Stumps of trees rest apostolically, are softened in coats of milky crystal. Will he tell us now what he could not imagine then? That he wears on his body the same scars that fly slowly and steadily in our hearts, that each mark of grief is a last meal under the late silence of a low sky? He is nameless, he is a stone apparition. He is his name, which means I am and I am not the man like you. Perhaps, looking in our windows he sees the stars sink back into the skin of night and knows the fluidity of his own image, what it is to be stripped, his skin exquisite in the glass entrance of wind, blood vessels retreating as we do from the cold, eyes, hair, a heart forcing like a fist every breath. We stay near, held in the palms of our own hands, intricacy flattened there, like dying on its black edge of sleep. We stay because each year something comes unnoticed, a winter arrival etched in the stone-cold beauty of our bodies. ...

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